Meet Me in Barefoot Bay

by Roxanne St Claire

  “Hey,” she whispered. “You know we just want to help you.”

  Jocelyn nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “And so does Will.”

  One more nod and Tessa pulled her a little closer.

  “He’s been hurt, too.”

  Jocelyn just looked at her. “I read somewhere he was married.” Not that she’d Googled him on one particularly lonely night back in L.A. or anything.

  “He was divorced before he got here. I always thought that was what put the little bit of, I don’t know, sadness in his eyes. Or maybe being so far away from baseball and not having a coaching job offer.”

  More inside information that Tessa had and Jocelyn didn’t. Who could she blame? She’d never called Will, had never kept in touch, and, of course, neither had he.

  “But today I thought maybe…” She waited a few seconds until Jocelyn nudged her.

  “Maybe what?”

  “I think it’s you who hurt him.”

  “Me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it was his ex-wife. Short marriage—he never talks about it. You should find out.”

  She intended to. When they had that “catch-up” conversation he wanted so much.

  The thing was, she wanted it, too.

  Chapter Nine

  Will turned his truck into the Super Min, as he did every day on his way up to Barefoot Bay, to shell out a few bucks for Charity Grambling’s coffee. Like the owner of the convenience store, the coffee was bitter and a little past its prime. But it was usually served with a side of opinion or gossip, which Will filed away or shared with Clay if it had anything to do with Casa Blanca.

  And her gossip often did focus on the resort, since Charity, along with a few of her family members, considered herself the last word on everything related to Mimosa Key. The building of Casa Blanca, the island’s first true resort, was pretty much the biggest thing happening in Charity’s world.

  The bell dinged as Will pushed open the door, a charming reminder of earlier days when this was just a corner store and not the Shell Gas Station and Super Mini Mart Convenience Store. Without looking up, Charity whipped the magazine she was reading out of sight, shoving it under the counter before she leveled a beady brown gaze at her customer.

  “Morning, Will.”

  “Charity.” He nodded and headed toward the back to grab a couple Gatorades for the job, pulling open the cooler door to check out the abysmal selection. Fruit punch and the blue shit. He let out a loud exhale.

  “Sorry, I can’t sell enough of it to get you that original flavor, Will,” Charity called back. “You’ll have to go back to the big leagues for that. Gonna happen anytime soon?”

  He grabbed two sixteen-ounce reds and carried them back to the counter. “You’ll be the first to know if the Yankees call, Charity.”

  She gave him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes or make her leathery old face any more attractive. Scooting around on her stool, Charity held her bloodred fingernail over the cash register. “Will that be all?”

  He gave her a look. “And coffee.” Like he hadn’t been getting a medium black every day since they’d broken ground at the resort.

  “’Kay.” She tapped the register but didn’t complete the transaction. “How’re things up at the white elephant?” She never failed to make a dig, still stinging over the loss of her fight to stop Lacey and Clay from building a resort that might steal some business from the dumpy motel her daughter owned.

  “Moving along real well,” he said. Or they would be if he could get his head around Bay Laurel’s floor today.

  “Taking any guests yet?” she asked pointedly.

  “Nope.” Not unless he counted Jocelyn. Still, something about the way she asked gave him pause; Charity had an uncanny knowledge of what was going on anywhere and everywhere on Mimosa Key. It wouldn’t surprise him if she’d somehow sniffed out the return of one of their most infamous residents.

  “I heard that one of those teeny little houses is all done and Lacey spent a fortune decorating it to look like something out of a Humphrey Bogart movie.”

  How did she know this stuff?

  “We’re a long way from taking guests,” he said.

  “Even just one?”

  He gave her a hard look. How could she know? From the magazines she sold? Had one of them leaked Jocelyn’s flight information or something? They were capable of anything.

  He turned to the rack of tabloids, ready to grab them all and clear them out if he had to. It would only help locally, of course.

  The entire top rack was empty.

  He peered closer, glancing at the other monthly titles below. Maxim and Cosmopolitan, some fishing rags and a stack of USA Today next to the Mimosa Gazette on the bottom. Nothing that would have word about Jocelyn. But those cheesy tabloids, like the National Enquirer he’d picked up the other day, were all gone.

  Shit. Had the entire town sucked up the news because she was a local girl?

  “What are you looking for?” Charity asked sharply.

  “The magazines.”

  “Sold out.”

  “Completely?”

  She shrugged. “Is that going to be all, then, Will?”

  “When do the new tabloids come in, usually?” he asked.

  She narrowed her eyes at him then hit the register key with an officious snap. “You taking a sudden interest in the latest on the movie stars in rehab, Will?”

  “Something like that.” He glanced at the empty rack again, pulling out his wallet. “It’s Tuesday,” he said, thinking out loud. “Will more magazines come in this week?” He’d buy every one of them if he had to, just to keep the locals from drinking that stupid Kool-Aid and somehow changing—or forming—their opinions about Jocelyn.

  “Varies.” She took his money and started to make change, faster than usual, he noticed.

  The bell rang and they both glanced at the door, seeing Deputy Slade Garrison with two other men, one holding a small video camera.

  “Charity, can I talk to you a minute?” Tough enough to be respected but still young enough to be respectful, Slade’s tone was deferential toward Charity.

  “What do you want, Slade?” Her gaze zeroed in on the camera, a touch of color draining from her face. “Something the matter?”

  Standing near the coffee station, Will set up a cup, listening to the exchange while he poured.

  “These gentlemen are from an Internet Web site and TV show known as TMZ.”

  The coffee splashed as Will missed the edge of the cup.

  “What the hell is that?” Charity asked, setting Will’s change on the edge of the counter with a loud slap.

  TMZ? Holy shit. Will knew what it was. He knew exactly what it was—thanks, Guy—and why they’d be here. Son of a bitch, if Charity had given away the fact that Jocelyn was in town, he’d kill her.

  “They stopped into my office,” Slade said, not answering her question. “They are looking for some information on a former resident who I don’t personally know, but I told them if anything is going on here in Mimosa Key, you’d know about it.”

  Only in a town the size of Mimosa Key would visiting reporters get an escort from the sheriff’s department.

  Charity stood, pushing back her stool and lifting the countertop so she could step out. When she did, a couple of Will’s coins dropped but she ignored them, her unwavering focus on the men.

  Of course. Charity would be in her element now. The most gossip-crazed busybody in the state of Florida with a chance to be on TMZ? Her head would explode.

  And if she so much as uttered the name Jocelyn Bloom, Will would break their fucking camera and run them over with his truck. Right in front of Slade.

  Will eyed the two men, one stepping forward and handing a card to Charity.

  “Bobby Picalo,” he said, flashing a fake-white smile and running a hand through hair that had spent too much time in the sun or maybe a salon. “Reporter-at-large for TMZ.com.” Slimeball freelancer, in other wo
rds. “We’re a news-gathering organization.”

  Will almost groaned out loud. News? They call this news? And, shit, this bastard would have Charity plastered all over TV tonight—–or all over the Internet in an hour—and sixty more slimeballs just like him would be barreling over the causeway by tomorrow morning.

  He had to stop her.

  “What brings you to Mimosa Key?” Charity asked.

  “We’re tracking a big story out of Los Angeles and we think it’s possible a source we’d like to talk to is on this island. A young woman by the name of Jocelyn Bloom.”

  Despite the fire that shot through him, Will stayed perfectly still, not reacting, not breathing, just waiting, the coffeepot poised in the air.

  Charity said absolutely nothing.

  “Do you know her?” the reporter asked.

  Charity glanced at Deputy Garrison, who didn’t respond, then she lifted a skeletal-thin shoulder. “I’ve heard of her.”

  Maybe she wanted them to beg so she could negotiate for more airtime. That’d be just like her.

  “From the papers or do you know her personally, ma’am?” Picalo asked.

  “She used to live here years ago. Maybe came back now and again, but I think she’s on to much bigger and better things than a little town like this.”

  Will gently set the coffeepot back on the burner. Was this Charity Grambling? Not attacking the opportunity to be in the middle of a national scandal? Something was not right.

  “Does she still have family living here?”

  Another look at the officer and then a sideways look at Will. If he didn’t know Charity better, he’d have sworn she’d sent something like a warning. To him?

  Because if these pricks went anywhere near Guy, he’d—

  “Her mother passed ’bout a decade ago,” she said. “And her father took an early retirement from the sheriff’s office. Right, Slade?”

  “That’s right,” Slade agreed. Will waited for him to mention that the retired sheriff lived a few miles south, but he stayed silent.

  “No other family?” the man asked, looking from Charity to the sheriff.

  “No.” Charity locked her hands on her hips. “No one.”

  Will couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. Charity missing out on the chance to gossip to a reporter? Why? Money, of course. She must want to have her palms greased thoroughly before she parted with any information.

  “But if someone knew her or saw her here, how would—”

  “I’d know about it, young man,” she said, bouncing on her sneakers and crossing her arms with a remarkable amount of moxie considering that she was well north of sixty, at least. “I know every damn thing that happens on this island, and every person who lives here. She’s not here, hasn’t been for years, and won’t be probably ever again. I suggest you head back to Hollywood for your story.”

  “Well, I—”

  “You heard the lady,” Slade said.

  Charity flicked her fingers toward the door. “Good-bye now, gentlemen.”

  They backed out and Charity went with them, as if she didn’t trust them to hang out in the Super Min parking lot.

  No money, no airtime, no nothing.

  What was wrong with this picture?

  Holding his coffee, Will went back to the counter to grab the bills she’d left there for him, noticing the two quarters that had fallen to the floor. He set the coffee on the counter to crouch down and scoop up his change.

  As he did, he happened to look at Charity’s four-legged stool, and the pile of newspapers and magazines behind it.

  Not just any newspapers and magazines. Tabloids.

  He leaned closer, getting a better look. On top of the stack, Jocelyn’s face was as clear as it had been in his fitful sleep last night.

  A stack of tabloids nearly six inches high. They weren’t sold out; she’d taken them off the racks.

  Why?

  He’d known Charity Grambling since he was a kid, bought gas for his first car at the Super Min, and snacks on his way home from baseball practice. As long as he’d known her, she’d never veered off track from what she was: a know-it-all, greedy, meddling, opinionated troublemaker who considered herself the law and last word on Mimosa Key.

  So something wasn’t right. And that couldn’t be good. Not if Charity Grambling was involved.

  She came back in, a sour puss deepening the lines on her face.

  “Not like you to hide from the spotlight,” he said, pocketing his change.

  “That’s not the spotlight,” she said gruffly, heading back to her counter. “Those idiots are just… liars.” She slipped behind the counter and closed the top, securing herself—and her stash of tabloids—again. “What are you looking at?” she demanded.

  “I’m just wondering about those magazines, Charity.”

  He could have sworn she swallowed. “What magazines?”

  He indicated the empty rack. “The ones that are, you know, sold out.”

  “Why are you so doggone interested?”

  “I’d like to buy one. When will you have some to sell?”

  “ ’Bout the same time I get your precious original-flavored Gatorade,” she growled, waving to the door. “You better get to work, Will. The Eyesore on the Beach isn’t going to build itself.”

  “Charity, I—”

  “I’m not in a talking mood, Will, or didn’t you notice?”

  “I noticed. I noticed plenty. Like what you said to those men.”

  “Don’t you be talking to them,” she warned, pointing one of her crimson talons at him. “We don’t need those busybodies sniffin’ all over Mimosa Key.”

  “No, we don’t,” he agreed. “We have our own busybodies, thank you very much.”

  She had the good humor to laugh. “Hell, yeah. This town ain’t big enough for more than one busybody, don’t you forget it.”

  “Not about to, ma’am. And, uh, thank you.”

  She just nodded, her mouth uncharacteristically closed.

  Outside, the men had driven away but Slade stood next to his sheriff’s car talking to a young woman Will recognized as Gloria Vail, Charity’s niece.

  For a minute, Will considered enlisting the deputy’s help to protect Jocelyn, but after what he’d just witnessed, he wasn’t sure whom he should trust or why.

  Either way, Jocelyn needed to know the enemy was on the island.

  The mosquito netting around the bed wasn’t really necessary on a cool November morning, but Jocelyn drew it closed anyway, cloistering herself in the white gauze while she tapped her laptop and researched her options for assisted-living facilities.

  She focused her search on the neighboring mainland towns of Naples and Fort Myers, resulting in a number of options. Just as she clicked through to the second Web site, she heard a man clear his throat.

  “You decent in there?”

  Will. Just the sound of his voice made a quick electrical current shoot through her.

  “Define decent. I’m dressed.”

  She could have sworn she heard him tsk in disappointment. “You taking visitors?”

  Outside the netting, she could see him leaning on the jamb of one of the french doors, his familiar, masculine scent suddenly so out of place among the lingering aroma of herbal incense Tessa had sworn would make her sleep better.

  Tessa had been wrong.

  “You can come in,” she said, leaning across the bed to push the sheer curtain open. “I’m working.”

  He smiled and, damn, if all the sunshine outside didn’t pour right into the room. His eyes looked as blue as the sky behind him, his sizeable body suddenly taking up all the space in the room. “Nice office.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  He drew the curtain back a little farther, that soapy, sunny Will scent crazy-close now. He wore a white T-shirt that wouldn’t be as clean by the end of the day and ancient khaki cargo shorts, and held a work belt in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other.

  “You better have two o
f those,” she said, eyeing the coffee. “I can’t get an answer at room service to save my life.”

  He laughed at the joke and held the cup out to her. “Lacey’s in a roofing meeting, I’m afraid.”

  She took the coffee and sipped, raising her eyebrows. “Whoa.” She swallowed and made a face. “Super Min?”

  “Some things never change.”

  “Come on.” She patted the bed in invitation. “You’re going to find out what I’m doing on this computer sooner or later.”

  Setting his tool belt on the floor, he sat on the edge of the bed to check out the computer screen. “I hope to God you’re not at the TMZ Web site.”

  She almost choked. “I’m not a masochist, Will. Why, have you been there today? Is there new dirt online?”

  He took a slow breath as if he wanted to tell her something, then shook his head, indicating the computer. “What’s that?”

  She turned the screen. “The Cottages at Naples Bay.” She clicked to the next site. “Summer’s Landing.” And the next. “Palm Court Manor.” And the last. “Esther’s Comfort.”

  He held up his hand to stop the next click.

  “I like the sound of that one,” she said. “But I can get into one called Autumn House later today.”

  “Into one today? You’re moving him today?” He couldn’t keep the dismay out of his voice.

  “No, I meant into one for an interview. Placement is much harder and most of these homes have a waiting list.” Which she’d bet some cash could shorten.

  He pushed down the laptop screen and gave her a direct look. “Why are you in such a hurry?”

  “Because I long ago found that if you do the most distasteful tasks the very first thing in the day, they’re done. I’ve extended that strategy to my everyday life. The longer I sit on this—”

  “The more chance you might change your mind.”

  She just shook her head. “I’m not going to argue with you, Will. I’m going to Autumn House today.”

  “Then I’m going with you.”

  Not a chance. “No, thank you.”

  “You can’t go alone.”

  She frowned at him. “I most certainly can, but if I need company, I’ll get one of my friends.”